Josh T. Pearson

The first time I heard Josh T. Pearson was in Rough Trade – oh how absolutely cutting edge. But seriously, his second album, released February this year is titled, ‘Last Of The Country Gentlemen’, haunted the trendy 12 inches of the east end store like the ghosts of Lonesome Dove.

The second time Pearson shot into my vision was in the recent Uncut review, featured in March’s issue. This astute and accurately penned album breakdown was an insightful parchment into the warped mind of this shack-dwelling, bearded oddball. And as with all tortured country souls of his weary disposition, he is a troubled genius with a flourishing tale to tell that reaches peaks of alcoholism and depths of the darkest depression, blackened by fear and self-loathing and all these rancid attributes that bestow broken hearts and dying souls.

There was, however, shards of light creeping through the end of the tunnel as Pearson did an ‘Into The Wild’ and sold all his positions and moved into a ramshackle hut in the Texas desert. After a brief stay there he moved to Berlin where he created his latest album and then, illusive as ever, ended up on the banks of Paris where he now resides. Driven by his only hope left and a complete abundance of selflessness, he began to write again, fuelling his own self-mythological image by penning these pensive and apocalyptic country epics.

The aura of downfall and desolation that orbits his newest record sounds like the shadows of Texas themselves, creeping from the run-down homes and broken families and death that lies dormant in these desert towns.

I haven’t had enough time to fully immerse myself in the sorrow of this album, but the song below, ‘Woman, When I’ve Raised Hell’, suggests that anguish and woe may be removed from his own existence, but they certainly live on through the mysterious hells of his song writing.

Josh T. Pearson - Woman, When I've Raised Hell (Alternative Version) by Mute Artists

Various Cruelties

Plan B stating that he’s conquered soul was a bit presumptuous. In fact, it was a totally outrageous and ill-informed statement that holds little authenticity. The audacity of people these days is blood-boiling…

See, every once in a while an act like Plan B will hit the mainstream by shifting their original, rooted sound to a more polished, or possibly, totally altered outlook. These mainstream altering shifts then greet the public eye like a beacon of originality, and in turn, the audiences for whom this is crafted will leave their house, go to Tesco and buy their annual CD. This happens all over and it’s responsible for chart-dominating success, because think how many people fall into this category. Your parents maybe? Your sister? Your friends? – all of them.

Grandiose claims such as the one made by Plan B don’t affect the once-a-year CD shoppers though. Declarations and statements which burry themselves in the root-canal of music hold little stable ground with these music grazers, the deriding of soul means nothing, the alteration of sound is irrespective – but why should they care? It’s normal not to give a hoot, the oddities come from actually caring too much…

I was curious though, if Plan B has mastered soul and is apparently moving on to Reggae, where does that leave ‘Cold As You’ by Various Cruelties? Just teetering of the peripheral of Plan B’s conquered scene? Or is it a challenge? A fist-clenched challenge to the grime-turned-pop wordsmith? Nah, it’s more of an unintentional retort that disproves Plan B’s muggy, narcissistic presumption via oceans of fulfilling, Technicolor fore-frontal pop.

Various Cruelties stand firm, however, because the full-bodied brass and wavering melodious tones of Motown only hint towards their pop sensibilities. The London band formed in 2010 and have since supported Mumford and Sons, The Villagers and The Vaccines. An impressive roster of shows so far – and although personally I feel that means fuck all in the grand scheme of things, its something people like to write, so like the generic blog-mug I am, I’ve followed suit…

Various Cruelties - Cold As You by ListenBeforeYouBuy

The recently released ‘If It Wasn’t For You’ received some critical acclaim with its trembling surf guitar, undulating with mood and possession, but I feel the real extent of their sumptuous croons comes during ‘Chemicals’. Although extremely poppy and landing comfortably into the Brit-folk scene that emerged in the past couple of years, Various Cruelties lead the pack with throaty pouts and a sense of unaffected ease and comfort. At points it appears so perfectly delivered that you think you shouldn’t like it, but dismiss that moronic idea right out the window into on-coming traffic.

Various Cruelties - Chemicals by rockfeedback

There are many many positives that come from striving towards the polished product. They sound remarkably accomplished considering it’s still early for them, but most of all, the band wont have to alter any sound or direction to ‘conquer’ any form of popularity because they’re pretty much impeccable as they are.

Flats @ The Victory

I read the funniest interview with Flats the other day. In fact, it was less of an interview and more of a declaration of hate for various people. Firstly their fire-spitting angst and claims of just how punk they are teetered delicately along the line of cliché. “We’re the only band who are for real, out there smashing it,” stated bassist, Craig Pierce. It's dangerous territory this early on in your career, but you've got to admire the bravado.

The second thing that tickled me was frontman, Dan Devine, and his distain for mods as displayed in the visceral holler of 'Rat Trap', “I hate Paul Weller!, I hate The Jam!, I hate Roger Daltrey!” Someone needs a cup of tea and a nice lie down, I thought, as I sat there in my penny loafers and Harrington.

So I removed my paisley scarf and Wigan Casino t-shirt and geared up for Flats' show at The Victory in Dalston, with images of bloody revolt and murderous interaction swarming round my brain like the elated treasures of half-bit anarchy. It was quite exciting, if not a little scary.

From early on in the gig, the truth of these previous statements soon becomes clear and an overshadowing thunderous wave of sudden throttling noise is waved over The Victory by the dark hand of Flats. This is punk. Not garage rock or new wave hardcore or anything you might tend to bracket these guys in. It's an alarming projectile of anger, kicked in the behind by speed and the fowl, lewd bile of Dan’s uncompromising, rough slur that fuses The Damned, Ian Dury and Gallows into one fierce shrill.

‘Big Souls’ is a gutter-dwelling pit of doom breakdowns: unrestrained and feral, edgy and punchy, and equally as heartless as ‘Never Again’ with its rowdy, provoking overtones of fear-inducing wails. As Dan coughs up screams, his coiling and wiry figure seems unstable, but with a certain air of power about it. He will not be moved. I'd suggest you avoid eye contact because it looks like he might begin foaming at the mouth, ready to attack your face.

At points it’s hard to see a line of distinction between the songs, but then that’s the nature of this sort of burning onslaught: audio intrusion into the mind, screw with heads a little, bash about your thoughts of comfort into on-edge surprise. Don’t settle for any less.

So while Dan and co. hate everything except from themselves, I remain pleasantly surprised at the level of intensity knocked out by a band who are still taking their first steps. Their confidence is alarming (in a good way) and their arrogance sits well. But then what do I know? I’m off to watch ‘Quadrophenia’.

FLATS - EP 2 by flatsofcourse

Napoleon IIIrd

The one discernible factor that separates the expansive soundscapes of Napoleon IIIrd is the raunchy, punk-husk of the vocals that dominate the electronica tweaks that paint this technicolour canvas in visual and audio oddities.

The Unknown Unknown by Napoleon IIIrd by fabagency

Only Sons - I'm out of touch...

The Only Sons fall somewhere in between Drive-By Truckers and Lucero singing Justin Townes Earle songs. There’s that rooted, country-husk of booze and smokes that needs to be invested in the telling of fruitful, Southern tales.

Having heard, ‘Lay Back Down’ some two or so years ago, I did ponder upon their existence recently and prodded myself to scour for their whereabouts. Sure enough they’re still writing songs and have just completed a new album. So while I am clearly out of touch with the world, I can take some comfort in the fact that the violin still struts around The Only Sons, achy country toots.

The Only Sons - 01 - Modern Men by user3563993

Doyle And The Fourfathers

From song titles alone you can conjure images of acute responsibility from Southampton’s Doyle And The Fourfathers. Clad in tweed and Prince of Wales check, their Brit-pop librarian chic sits somewhere between Jarvis Cocker and Ray Davis, but musically, they bellow social and political declarations of distinctly Southern notions that muster up racing Brit-folk with undertones of a well-nurtured diet of punk.

Of course the notion of young middle class gentlemen with side partings stomping through acoustic-driven folk-punk will deter some of you uppity, student-protest, fire-extinguisher-throwing, part-time anarchists, but don’t cast judgments so brashly. These undertones are simply comments of social awareness. New single, ‘The Governor of Growing Up’, is a case in point. Racing eagerly through double-time drums and deeply pouted vocals, its Pulp-ish hooks undulate from subdued, articulate verses to violin-aided bridges that quickly rise towards something anthemic. ‘It must be the rebel of his childhood, lonely, misunderstood,’ spouts William Doyle like some aching, pen-bound poet of the mid nineties, and as ‘Every Woman You’ve Ever Met’ would suggest, there’s as much Cure and Bowie in there as Cocker.

The Governor of Giving Up (Single Version) by Doyle & The Fourfathers

An air of utter Britishness swarms through Doyle’s music like a tea party at a cricket match, but more than that, the Britishness confirms their adoration for a past musical heritage and that, despite some particularly witty lyrics, they are proud to be a British band. If we weren’t faced with this constant woe and dole-queue mayhem, teenage mothers and all, some of today’s wise lyrics wouldn’t have been penned. No one likes to sit on public transport and have some drooling, knuckle-dragging chump churn distorted, fizzled out-grime from his mobile phone, but it makes for an amusing song topic.

As their songs become slightly varied in more swooning currents of wavy, acoustic pop, their tender side comes to the boil. ‘What Else Are We To Do?’ confirms yet more Pulp-influenced eccentricity – boredom and loneliness in tact – while ‘Please Send My Regards’ enters into the realm of big band drums, snares skipping like soldiers marching through the villages of left-behind teenage souls.

Tom Robinson of 6Music has praised the band on numerous occasions, playing various Fourfathers' demos on his radio show, and now they’re beginning to pick up a little pace, recognition is looming in great, glorious clouds

Wolf People @ Cargo

Expectations are either quashed or amplified when you see a band for the first time. It’s that make or break moment that rests on the shoulders of triumph or despair. Like a first date in many ways. Will she be as attractive as she is through a pair of binoculars from the tree in her back garden? Or was that just her sister? Judgment day has arrived…

As Wolf People enter the stage, smoke starts to fill the air in Cargo. I haven’t seen a smoke machine in a long darn time, and although some venues stand firmly against it, this is the sort of haunting alt-folk affair that benefits from such additions. Slowly escalating eerie coos start to trickle through the cracks in the feedback, at first dripping into mystified pools of electric folk until it builds in to mountainous solos that clamber up and up until lighting strikes and ravenous musical thunder screams.

Constantly building, with a riff that resembles Black Mountains' ‘Don’t Run Our Hearts Around’, ‘Silbury Sands’ burns, engulfs, and ascends into a rousing pound of trippy rock. But when ‘Morning Born’ drops, it becomes fundamentally clear that ‘Salbury Sands’ is the tip of the psych-burg. It commences as a near-Celtic folk squeeze of ambient vocals that ring through the ages of seemingly medieval notions, before its Fairport Convention credentials slowly disintegrate. From these dying embers come the monstrous rock and roll fires of '70s Zeppelin, as guitarists Jack Sharp and Joe Hollick let their fingers run over fret boards like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Wolf People’s debut record, ‘Steeple’, is clearly influenced by the 1970s. But what confirms its authenticity is the diverse range of influences – from the harmonies of Laurel Canyon with Zappa and his groupies running wild in scenes of hallucination, all the way to the Continental Hyatt House with over-indulged rock stars prancing around in women’s blouses, grooving to torrid guitars that sound so important they become like the roar of God himself.

Wolf People - Silbury Sands by All Tomorrows Parties

Jack Sharp’s voice contributes largely to Wolf People's significance. He could’ve easily slipped comfortably into a harmony-based CSNY folk collective, crafting melodic Fleet Foxes / Low Anthem ditties. But instead he’s chosen to utilise his gift and lend it to rock and roll. 'One by One from Dorney Reach’ embodies this notion religiously. Its ‘Immigrant Song’ riff judders and undulates before the inevitable fret-play kicks in and guitars, once again, run rampant through the debauched hamlets of feedback and distortion.

Recorded in a 17th century barn in Wales, 'Steeple' has clearly benefited from such archaic surroundings. Tonight, however, shows something else. Wolf People clearly have one foot in the past and an adoration for their musical heritage, but every other part of their body, instruments included, is leaping forwards into the modern age as they commence their takeover of rock and roll.